Margaret Shield (sophist) wrote in dunhavenic, @ 2017-10-17 00:05:00 |
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“Oi, Grant! A little help?” On the other side of the door, Margaret struggled with a load of four large books ordered for Sarah’s classroom, the glossy surfaces protected by a thick plastic wrapping. Sarah’s class was one of the primary ones at Dunhaven High that consistently utilized the library’s resources and as such, Margaret always attempted to ensure that her requests were filled as quickly as possible. Of course it didn’t hurt that she could take the opportunity to personally deliver the materials to Sarah’s classroom. After class. Without her blazer. If she thought about it any harder she’d be embarrassed enough to leave the delivery to an email. But perhaps her stupid dreams - and perhaps her brother’s stupid comments - made her just that much more bold. She couldn’t keep denying the existence of this, anyway. Sarah glanced up at the sound of a voice calling her name, and her eyes widened when she saw Margaret on the other side. “Oh!” She sent her pencil down and scurried over to the door to open it. “Here, let me.” She reached out and took the top three off Margaret’s hands. It was only fair, considering Margaret had come all the way to the art room on her own. “Thank you so much.” One of the downsides to living in such a small town was that resources -- especially for art, and especially for anything less than mainstream. What Sarah was looking for was diversity in art, and histories on alternative art styles that teenagers might relate better to than the old classics. “You can put it down on my desk.” The desk was a little messy, covered with art supplies and half-finished drawings and her students’ projects, but there was an empty corner near the front that was big enough for a stack of books. The stack of books slid from Margaret’s hip to the desk in question and when she stood, slightly winded from her task, she turned to Sarah with a smile. “You’re welcome, of course. I’m glad to requisition text that’s a bit more exciting than here look at this example of women dying painted Rossetti. What a hack. I still don’t understand why people love him.” If she kept up this conversation, perhaps she could stay a bit longer without making it look like complete and total desperation. A smile. “Sorry if the PRB’s your thing, of course.” “Ugh.” Sarah wrinkled her nose. “God, no, don’t worry. I have better taste than that.” It was probably a bit pretentious to turn her nose up at them, but they were a touch pretentious themselves, weren’t they? No movement was without its faults in the end. For all she appreciated their emphasis on the vibrancy of nature… well. Their subject matter wasn’t a particular favorite of hers. “They’ll learn all about that later,” she explained, shifting her voice to imitate one of her students, “the boring stuff.” She was sure that some parents found her preference for lesser known artists of color (or for comics or urban art) frustrating, and she was sure some would rather that she taught their children to be like Monet, but throwing them off the deep end wasn’t going to inspire any of them. “I’d rather get them excited to do something, you know?” “Good God, yes. Students are more likely to connect to relevant text rather than say, The Leatherstocking Tales. Your class is the perfect example of how you utilize your contemporary art to lay the groundwork. The district should be thanking you,” she said sincerely. A smile. “Do you do any after school teaching? Not for children.” The compliments had Sarah blushing - more than she might have usually, because of the source - and she busied herself with unwrapping the books as she answered. “Thank you, that means - it means a lot. That's what I'm trying to do.” Margaret’s question drew her gaze again, and she looked up, one brow arched. “I could be convinced to, sure.” It wasn't like she had a really packed schedule outside of the school, unlike some teachers. Most of her spare time was making her own art. “Are you asking for yourself or?” “ … I’m definitely asking for myself,” came out in the British version of a rush. And knowing that she was a little less than intelligible in those sorts of situations, Margaret further took a breath and attempted to explain. “When I was a girl, Mum had me at painting lessons for a couple years. Watercolours and landscapes and all that rot, you know? Something ladies did. But …” She took a step closer to Sarah. “I’d really like to try something more my own speed?” In an instant, the conversation felt laced by something heady -- or was that just her own feelings playing tricks on her? Sarah always felt woefully common, unremarkable, forgettable, around Margaret that she’d never let her imagination get any farther than that. She absolutely had, however, imagined similar conversations. She could be cool, she told herself. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with watercolors, but…” Her voice trailed off, and she smiled. “What’s your speed? Maybe I can help.” “Watercolour requires a detail I don’t have much patience for these days and I’m absolute shit when it comes to anything artistic, really,” she admitted. “I once took a knitting class and was thrown out by the instructor for getting too fresh with the needles.” Flashing a smile -- “So I’m looking for some professional expertise.” Sarah held back a laugh at Margaret’s description. She wasn't wrong, honestly. It did take patience. “All right. Fewer rules, just whatever’s in your heart?” That was the problem with a lot of art teachers: they were strict about following specific styles and guidelines. “You've come to the right place. We can find you something that's a little more… free.” “That sounds lovely. You can come over to my place -- just tell me what to buy, yeah?” She was all in now and presumed it was simply time to put her cards on the table. “Wine?” Sarah wondered how much of this was still an art lesson -- wouldn’t it be easier for Margaret to come to hers? -- because the inclusion of wine sounded a lot like something more. Or, Sarah thought, it was like one of those wine-and-painting-nights offered at so many studios these days. It was a clever idea, to find a way to get people to relax. She hoped it wasn’t one of those, though. She really hoped it wasn’t. “I like reds,” she answered. “But I’m not that picky. Should I bring anything besides the supplies and myself?” “We’re in luck. I prefer reds, too. Especially if it comes out of a box.” She grinned, leaning her hip against Sarah’s desk. “I promise I’ll bring out the bottles for you, though.” This was actually happening. Sarah wasn’t making excuses or saying no outright. “Friday?” “Friday,” Sarah agreed. The thought made her giddy and nervous, and she found herself fidgeting with her hands all of a sudden, unsure of what to do with herself. “It’s --” She took a deep breath. “It’s a date.” If it wasn’t, Sarah was pretty sure she could play it off as a joke before she crawled under a rock to die, but just in case, she had to try. Margaret stood, giving Sarah a resolute nod. “Yes, a date.” Bloody hell, Fitz, you’d better have beer and pizza and something to do on Friday night. She could feel herself blushing, like some damn school girl. It would annoy her later but with Sarah, it seemed, now on point to say things like date and be serious about it, she could breathe a bit easier. “I should let you get back to it, though.” “Okay.” How was she supposed to teach a class now? Sarah felt dazed, and she knew she’d be distracted all day -- all week. It took a couple more seconds for her to find her composure and her voice again. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind the company, but I don’t think the principal would like it if we slacked off on our jobs. I’ll see you later?” She said it as a question, but it wasn’t, not really. “And thanks for bringing the books. I’ll have to order more often if this is how it goes.” A laugh. “Arts and humanities, shacking it up again and being difficult, that’s what the principal would say. So order more lovely avant-garde books anytime.” She walked backward toward the door, finding her way with her hand. She smiled quickly, and was gone. |